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Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow?
Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters
Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow
By a sly cup or so of our fire waters?

They are thy people's deadliest poison.

They

First make them cowards, and then white men's slaves,
And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey,
And lives of misery, and early graves.

For by their power, believe me, not a day goes,
But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away?
To the deep bosom of thy forest home,
The hill side, where thy young pappooses play,
And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come?
Come not the wailing of thy gentle squaws,

For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear,
Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas,

That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here?
The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt,
Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast
Of the caged bird against his prison bars,
That thou, the crowned warrior of the west
The victor of a hundred forest wars,
Should'st in thy age, become a raree show
Led, like a walking bear, about the town,
A new-caught monster, who is all the go,
And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown?
Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about,
The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?

Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came,
Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one,
The

power that taught thee thus to veil the flame
Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun,
And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee,
Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile,
Of a bound warrior in his agony,

Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's, Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree

Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now. I'll not insult its fallen majesty,

Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould,

Rich, warm, and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air,

No second verdure quickens in our cold

New, barren earth; no life sustains it there. But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing,

Though crownless, powerless, 'every inch a king.'

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature,
Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy;
The best of blood glows in thy every feature,
And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy,
Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow;
Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye,
He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow

All question of thy noble family;

For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety,
A leader in our city good society."

The Vignette to the New-York Book is highly creditable to MR. DICK, the en graver. But, though a tasteful thing in itself, we would have preferred something more characteristic and national.

Autumn Leaves. 1 volume. Taylor.

THIS, like the preceding work, is a compilation of fugitive pieces of poetry, se= lected, however, chiefly from foreign works, among which Blackwood's Maga zine contributes a large number. The pieces are chosen with taste; and the work being handsomely printed, is already popular.

MONTHLY COMMENTARY.

[Having thrown this department of the Magazine into a new form, we intend ed to have allotted more space, and given a new character to the Monthly Commentary in our present number; but having unwittingly made the Critical Notices exceed their limits, we are compelled now to defer the contemplated improvements to another month.]

Theatricals. Our Boston and Philadelphia readers, who are fond of the dra ma, are likely to enjoy a great treat soon in the performances of Miss Ellen Tree, who has been drawing overflowing houses at the Park Theatre for the last two weeks. The popularity of Hackett, the practical persuasiveness of the Ravel Family at the National, with the unrivalled but only half appreciated display of Ma damoiselle Auguste at the Park, have all paled their attractions before this new star. The first feeling upon witnessing Miss Ellen Tree's performances was rather one of disappointment; people had confounded her with her celebrated sister, and expected to be astonished where they were only to be delighted. But toward the close of her first performance, and upon each subsequent repetition, her style and appearance, not less than her acting, won so upon the taste and feeling of the audience that she has now become entrenched in their good will; and her handsome open countenance and queenly figure, her winning voice and plastic expression, have established her so firmly in the favour of a New-York audience, that we doubt not the same powers of pleasing will make her a favourite upon every stage in the Union where she may appear. The manager of the Park, in introducing the Keeleys and Miss Tree upon his boards, not to mention the other attractions which they have presented this autumn, has catered with his usual discrimination for the public taste. Mr. Macready, who has just arrived from England, will, we presume, before long make his appearance at this theatre. From the papers received by the vessel in which he arrived, we learn that Mr. Forest is carrying all before him in London. After winning the popular voice in what may be called his American characters, he has been subjected to the severest test of the British critics by playing the most difficult of Shakspeare's parts. The result has pleased but not surprised us. Though not ultra admirers of Mr. Forest's acting, since the second season of his appearance, we have always had the highest confidence in his talents as an actor; and we hailed a slight decline in his excessive popularity at his last engagement on the New-York boards as an indication of his having at last aimed successfully at the highest station in his art; of having subdued his too salient genius, and taught his masculine powers to tax themselves as well in the more delicate as in the energetic passages he enacted. Foreign travel, study, and the suggestions of his own matured taste have done for him what the plaudits of a too partial audience never could have effected. The country may be proud of having produced such a representative of Shakspeare; but the artist, though he may thank his mother soil for his genius, has only to thank himself for his skill. He has been a self-made man from the beginning.

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Introduction of the hero-School-days—An event in life.

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My father was it matters not who my father was; people stand or fall by their own personal qualities in our country; and the respectability of our parents, though a useful endorsement of one's character when first "setting up in society," has but little effect here in establishing our ultimate position in the world;-My father, however, was a gentleman, and in giving me the education of one, thought that he was merely taking an ordinary precaution that I should not disgrace the family whose name I bore. As for the rest, I inherited an equally small share of his affection and his estate. My brothers, of whom I had several, were all boys of greater promise than myself; and scripture and parental pride both suggesting that "to them that hath shall be given," our sire, without pursuing the text so far as to take away "from him that hath not even that which he hath," allowed me to grow up with a monopoly of indifference which was enjoyed by me alone of his children.

The rest of my social circle seemed to share my father's feelings.

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